Lines Drawn In Blood And Chalk
by Feonyx
Summary: War is death, and Boyd suspects Rolf is beginning to enjoy it too much. While the rest of the company searches Serenes, he tries to intervene, but most plans don't work out as expected, and sometimes even a happy ending is an unbearable tragedy.


**Lines In Blood And Chalk**

_A Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance Gaiden (Side-Story)_

Oscar and Boyd took in the scene, which was grim for reasons that had nothing to do with being the room of a teenage boy. In fact, Rolf was surprisingly careful about keeping everything tidy. On the other hand, as a band of mercenaries in the employ of the Apostle, they only had a handful of possessions to bring with them anyway. The graveness in his elder brothers' expressions cared nothing for neatness and had everything to do with the wall opposite his bed. It was grey-white stone like the rest of the city of Sienne, flawless if rough, and altogether featureless. At least, it had been when the Greil Mercenaries moved in.

"It's freaking me out," Boyd remarked. "And it's just chalk."

Oscar tentatively brushed one of the lines with his fingertip and examined the powder he gathered. "Mm-hm. I wonder where he got it."

"I think _why_ is the scarier question right now. The kid's tallying something." The chalk marks were in the ordinary groups of five: four vertical lines with one crossing them horizontally. There were a lot. More now than when they'd first noticed Rolf was keeping track of… whatever it was.

"He's put it on the same wall as the door," Oscar observed. "And this is a small room. Might have been an armor closet not too long ago. I don't think it's something he means for other people to see."

"Hence me and the freaking-out thereof," said Boyd. "It's like a prison sentence countdown."

"Days since we reached Begnion?" Oscar guessed. "…No, it's only been a couple of weeks. Days since we left the base back in Crimea?"

"Maybe," said Boyd. "I haven't really been keeping track, but that was, what, more than three months ago? There aren't that many marks here."

"Close to," said Oscar. "Eighty-two, by my count."

"Well, we're sure he's counting up and not down, right?" asked Boyd.

"I'm sure. There were definitely less when I noticed it a few days ago."

"How _did_ you notice it, Mother?" Boyd grinned at his brother; Oscar was so easy to tweak that it was hardly sporting. "If Rolf starts acting paranoid, I'll let him know he's right. Look, we all do weird things."

"You said it freaked you out," Oscar countered.

"And other people would probably be freaked out by the weird stuff I do. You, well… you're just really evenly balanced. "

"And not weird?"

"No, I mean most people are weird in secret bursts, and you're just somewhat weird all the time."

Oscar moved his head in a way that suggested he was rolling his eyes, although – for obvious reasons – it was impossible to tell. "How could I possibly be worried about Rolf when he's got a shining example of maturity like you to count on?" Boyd was revving up a riposte when a distant door opened and tramping boots echoed down the hall. The others were back from the raid on Duke Tanas' mansion, and Rolf would be among them.

"Out," said Boyd. "Fast fast fast."

"Window," Oscar agreed, and slid sideways through the narrow space, bruising himself on the stone frame as he went. Boyd followed, sensibly going feet-first instead. Below him, Oscar fell the single storey onto a sturdy wooden awning and rolled off with surprising skill. The warrior, with rather mightier arms, hung on for a moment to the sculpted stone around the window. After a few moments, Rolf entered the room, not noticing the green fringe of Boyd's hair as he watched from outside.

The boy unbuckled his quiver and set it aside carefully, discarded his bow with more force and less caution, and rummaged under his mattress for a moment before producing the all-important chalk. There wasn't much room in his chambers to storm around; he did the best he could anyway, then began striking marks on the wall. He drew the chalk fiercely, as if it were chiselling into the stone. _Mark, mark, strikethrough, mark, mark_. Eighty-seven.

Boyd thought quickly; he was better at it than his reputation might claim. Five at once obviously meant that he wasn't counting days. What else could be important? Something that would get him all worked up over five – Boyd found his thoughts suddenly interrupted by his younger brother, who seemed to have been counting.

"That's it?" he growled. "That's _all_?"

A sickening thought erupted into Boyd's contemplation, and a dove fluttered down to land on the windowsill, possibly as a bizarre counterpoint. He let go of the stonework and performed the same rolling escape as Oscar, sending the dove to the wing. Rolf looked up at the sudden frenzy of fluttering, but dismissed it quickly. He looked back at the tally, daring it to change, and eventually settled for kicking the wall.

* * *

It took the older brothers the rest of the day to talk again. Ike was fuming about the battle at the Tanas estate and had a major new task they had been hired for; Oscar was busy with strategy sessions and company status for hours. Obviously, Ike only needed really needed Titania and Soren for such things, but the paladin preferred a further assistant. Considering that he was, relative to the rest of their burgeoning army, one of the most veteran members, and consistently loyal – unlike Gatrie – Boyd felt it was unfair that Oscar was constantly chosen over him.

That this also made Boyd the ranking company officer on duty didn't help matters the way you might expect. He had to move stealthily among the barracks to avoid getting pulled in to be interrogated for rumours, authorise expenses, or mediate disputes. Kieran was a walking dispute all on his own. So he hid in shadowy alcoves, darted between inexpertly stacked crates, and eventually crept back into his own quarters, which could be safely locked against invaders.

Mist was waiting there, arms crossed, eyes focused like a laguz hawk.

"Oh, great," Boyd muttered, not bothering to finish latching the door. "What is it?"

"You need to do something that defies your nature and take responsibility," she stated.

"Why?"

"Because I told you to. My brother's got enough to deal with right now without having to scheme out and command every little bandit problem I agree we'll clear up," said the cleric.

"You agreed to who what in the where now?" Boyd repeated. He hated it when Mist did this.

"I was out in the market and I heard some people talking about bandit problems east of the city. Apparently they ambush anyone who tries to take the main road to Sienne, and I said we'd take care of it." Mist looked away. "I don't know if I trust that Apostle lady."

"I think she's younger than you–" Boyd began.

"Look," said Mist sharply. "I hope Ike and Princess Elincia get the help they're looking for, and maybe we can go back to Crimea someday, but if they can't because it doesn't fit whatever game Begnion is playing, then we'd better have a good reputation with the rest of the citizens, don't you think?"

"All right, all right," he relented. "Tell me the rest and I'll take it to Ike."

"Don't give him the work, just tell him that you're taking care of it," Mist insisted. "Good. Now, the place is about six miles into the forest southeast of here, away from Serenes, and there are some complications…"

* * *

When Oscar finally did get free of helping organise strategy, he only had to check one room to find Boyd, because this room was the mess hall. This late at night, it was empty even of Begnion knights, except for the lone warrior tilting his chair back against a pillar, one leg braced against the table. He was rocking back and forth slowly, lost in thoughts more complex than usual.

"I think there's something in the water here that makes anyone under five feet go insane," Boyd decided, still looking blankly into infinity. Infinity, in this case, consisted of the ceiling.

"I heard from Ike that you're going on a bandit hunt," said Oscar. "It's not like you to take charge like that."

"I was threatened at scowlpoint," he explained. "Ike's letting me bring Rolf, and asked me to take Mist; I get the feeling he's expecting something nasty to happen in the next couple of days."

"Well, they're going into the forest. The last thing that happened in there was a massacre of pacifists," said Oscar. "It's still probably deserted, but hardly a good spot for a picnic, so I can understand him not wanting Mist along, but why Rolf?"

"So I can keep him out of the fight," said Boyd. "Look… I think he's keeping a score of his kills."

Oscar froze in mid-stride toward the kitchen. "…Oh. That would sort of make sense."

"In a scary-like-wyvern-whelps-in-your-sock-drawer way, yeah. Sense. It's sick."

"But he never wanted to fight before. In that first battle, he barely even took a shot at the enemy. Rolf's not a bloodthirsty kid," Oscar protested, shaking his head as if the idea were something sticky that he wanted off.

"You're telling me your first kill didn't change you? Some people break down, some learn to cope, and some people… find out they like it," said Boyd. "Rolf's just a kid. Whether he really understands what's happening or not, we've been in a lot of desperate fights over the last few months, and we've counted on him more every time, because he's proven we can, but we didn't stop to ask if we _should_."

"Sure we did. The first day, taking that fort, when he and Mist followed us down the coast," said Oscar.

"That was about him not getting hurt. This is about him not growing up into a murderer."

"We've all taken lives, Boyd. The line is pretty thin already."

"You're being pretty cavalier about this!" said Boyd. He was immune to irony.

"I just don't think we should overreact. Don't go charging off to confront Rolf just because you've got a theory. If you're wrong, he'd probably be pretty insulted. And with good cause," said Oscar. "And if you are right, then let's try to fix it with some finesse. You and I can keep him out of the fight for a while, and he'll either have time to calm down, or we'll be able to convince Ike that he shouldn't fight any more."

Boyd sighed and stopped bracing himself; his chair's front legs slammed back down to the floor even as he flopped bonelessly onto the table. "I don't know if it'll be that easy. I saw him counting, and then he said 'that's all?' like… he was upset by it. Not just disappointed, but really _wishing_ it was more. Angry. Hungry."

"Hungry to kill people for the sake of racking up a score?" said Oscar. "That just doesn't sound like our brother."

"Welcome to the new Rolf order," said Boyd. He was facedown, forehead on his crossed wrists, and didn't look up when Oscar put a hand on his shoulder. Apparently he was immune to solidarity, too.

"We'll handle this, Boyd. You and me and him. Let's figure out our strategy for tomorrow."

* * *

Even in Crimea they had heard that the three most important parts of picking a place to live were all location. So, once someone had made the initial doomed decision to start a village in the middle of the woods, it was hard to imagine how they had managed to get anyone else to join up. The forest road through the village was rough and narrow, and the woods were the kind of perfect example found in a textbook with the caption 'Ideal Habitat of Bandits, Brigands, and Killer Thieves'.

"Looks pretty deserted," said Oscar, scanning the settlement from the forest's edge.

"I think they're mostly foresters and craftsmen," said Mist. "The ones who haven't left tend to stay inside a lot." Lending her credibility, three or four chimneys were sending up trails of dark forge-smoke. The village paths, however, were completely clear.

"I wish the nobles in Begnion would do more of that. Let's get this over with," said Boyd fervently. "Rolf, you're going with Mist to the tailor's house. Keep out of trouble."

"What?" asked Rolf. "What tailor? I thought we were here hunting bandits."

"No one told you?" Boyd turned on Mist. "I told you to make sure he knew what the mission was before we even left, let alone somewhere on the road here. What happened?"

"You didn't say anything like that," Mist countered, her brow going stern.

"Contradiction's not much of an alibi. Whatever," said Boyd, raising his hands in immediate surrender. "I knew it was trouble when Ike made me bring you. Okay, Rolf, it's a two-part mission. There are these bandits in the forest, but we don't know how long it's going to take to clear them all out, or even if there's just the one group. In the meantime, there's a tailor in the village who's managed to get poisoned by a snake or some kind of plant, and since all the physicians have already abandoned the village, we've got to get him to the city."

"And what, you and Oscar take on an army of forest brigands on your own?" Rolf asked.

"Done it before," Boyd replied.

"Do it again," Oscar added.

"But it'll be a lot harder if they manage to take any hostages, so don't get caught. Their camp is somewhere to the south, but word is there's also a bunch of them holed up in that barn across the stream. You'll leave the village by the north, take whatever paths you can find in the woods, and join the road once you're well away," Boyd explained. He rolled his eyes to emphasize the sarcasm: "Commander Tanith was _generous_ enough to have one of her Pegasus knights do the pickup, but some regulation says you've got to be within five miles of the city first."

"I think her exact words were 'we aren't a courier service'," said Oscar.

"Fine, whatever, I'll carry him if I have to," said Rolf, "but are you sure you can handle all the bandits on your own?"

"Stop questioning your commander," said Boyd. "Mist, you know which house you're going for?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "It's over th–"

"Good," said Boyd. "Stay put until you hear the chaos start, then get in and out again as quick as possible. I don't want any of you getting within fifty feet of brutes with axes." Mist and Rolf looked at him pointedly, their stare spending a significant amount of time on the axe in his hand. "Hilarious."

The warrior and knight – currently on foot – moved through the village cautiously, aware that it was halfway to becoming a bandit nest already and such people had funny ideas about traps and ambushes. Still, with whole houses to hide behind, it wasn't hard to stay out of sight as they approached the weathered barn on the far side of the settlement.

"I don't remember you telling Mist to explain anything to Rolf," said Oscar, nonchalantly.

"Well, if I'd done that, she probably _would_ have," Boyd explained. "No sense giving him any time to think up arguments for why he should be allowed to fight."

"Wow. From you, that kind of subtlety is a masterwork."

"…Eh, I'll take the praise I can get."

Soon they were in the grass shaded by the looming structure, and faced with several options. "Bandits moving into the village," Oscar muttered.

"Not a good sign," Boyd agreed. "What do you think?"

"I think moving in is a way of saying you're fearless and invincible. It's something you do when the people under attack are so broken that there's no chance they're going to fight back, so it doesn't matter whether they know where you are or not," said Oscar.

"Wow. You're really wordy."

"Why, what do _you_ think?"

"Mostly?" asked Boyd, drawing a torch from his pack. "Fire."

"Ah. Fire."

"Indeed."

At the echoes of furious shouting and the first ring of clashing steel, Rolf and Mist burst out of hiding at a sprint. Mist, being a forward thinker, ran a curved path so that in passing she could snag the archer's collar as he attempted to join his brothers in battle, and drag him in the right direction.

"Let me go!" Rolf protested. "I have to help them!"

"That's the idea, yes," Mist agreed. "But what you're doing is more the _opposite_ of help."

"You can get the sick guy out of there on your own, and try to heal him if he gets too weak – I can't. And I can't let them face a whole band of thieves on their own," said Rolf.

"Really?" Mist asked as she opened the door to the tailor's shop. "Or you just can't leave a fight alone?"

"I can't what?" asked Rolf.

"Who can't what?" asked the tailor, who was pale but standing.

"We're the mercenaries here to escort you," said Mist.

"_What?_ How old are you, eight?"

"Fourteen," Mist replied indignantly. "Let's go, and tell me if you start to feel weak."

"What do you mean I can't leave a fight alone?" asked Rolf, persistently.

"I have a staff, you see," she went on, still ignoring him. "So I should be able to bolster your health."

The tailor looked down at his poulticed and bandaged arm. "I don't remember that kind of snake causing hallucinations," he muttered. Giving up on an easy job, Mist took the man by his wrist and pulled him out of the building by gentle force. Rolf followed, keeping an agitated watch on everywhere at once and trying not to twitch whenever a particularly loud shout came from the distant fray.

Eventually, inevitably, one of them was much too familiar. Rolf whipped around with raptor-like focus. "That was Oscar yelling," he stated.

"It's probably a battle cry; don't slow me down, Rolf," said Mist. "We're almost into the woods again."

"Good," said Rolf. "Don't get seen." With that, the archer took off down a side lane, and Mist had no choice but to let him go. The tailor they were rescuing was unsteady on his feet, and exertion was already exhausting him. Mist focused, raised her staff, and started pulling again before the emerald sparks had faded.

Rolf was quick, as archers needed to be, and crossed the village in a dusty blur. He had enough time to think up a plan, which wasn't exactly the height of military brilliance, but would get the job done. There were three major steps, the first of which involved running headlong into an unsuspecting axe-wielding brute, and fortunately one presented himself right away. Rolf struck at full tilt; the fighter didn't appear to notice for several seconds.

Boyd hacked down his opponent of the moment and caught sight of the strange green-blond hair. "Rolf?"

"Hey, bro, uh… what's going on here?" he asked, letting a quaver into his voice.

"I told you to stay away!" Boyd bellowed.

"Bro, huh?" asked the human mountain. From somewhere in the chaos, as the bandits tried to put out the blazing building and bring down some surprisingly unkillable mercenaries, their leader pointed his halberd at Rolf and bellowed for someone to catch the brat. Several of the outlaws moved to encircle Rolf, who scrambled to his feet and made a break for freedom.

"What in the world is he doing?" Oscar demanded, parrying two oncoming blows and twisting into a deadly thrust. The cry earlier had been him, and Mist was wrong about its cause; the green of his left greave was going dark as he bled on it.

"…Evening the odds," Boyd realised with grim exasperation. A good portion of the brigands were now chasing him into the village, and the pressure on them in battle had reduced. The less time Boyd had to spend on defence, the more he could afford on his forte: overwhelming crushing offensiveness in every sense of the term.

As Rolf saw the third step of his plan – 1) run in, 2) scream 'BAIT', 3) run out – working effectively, a rush of satisfaction put extra spring in his pace. Of course, the roaring pursuit was a late reminder that he should probably have had a fourth step, along the lines of 'have a large fortress to seal yourself inside'. It wasn't that their axes were sharp, but more that they would put a dent in him from one shoulder to the opposite hip.

_Whatever_, Rolf thought, jumping a fence and then doubling back through a coal shed. _The point is that I've cut down their numbers and my bow's still slung on my back. I'd be in danger whether I was back there fighting or not. And at least I'm doing it without having to–_

Another familiar voice echoed in the village, and abruptly Rolf realised his mistake. Once they realised there was one potential hostage with the mercenaries, they were bound to look for more, and if Mist had been slowed down treating the poisoned man, she might not have reached cover yet. Fresh desperation fuelled his speed.

The three groups converged: Boyd and Oscar heard Mist and tried to shift their ongoing battle in that direction, Mist dragged the tailor toward her allies, and Rolf's indecisive mad dash directed him to wherever chaos seemed imminent. Their flights were centred on the bridge spanning the stream through the village, and though there weren't too many, bandits seemed to be coming from all directions. Though her cohort was obviously stressed, Rolf saw no signs of injury on Mist, and would have sighed in relief if he weren't already gasping.

The bandit leader stepped up, grinning at the flanking they had unintentionally performed. "Drop your weapons," he said, "or you all die slowly. You want to see who I pick to go first?"

"If we surrender," said Boyd, waving to the children and tailor, "those three go free." Rolf had no illusions about Boyd's idea of 'surrendering', which had always been fatal for the person accepting it up to now, but they didn't have any hidden backup, or even fair odds. He wondered for a moment what he could manage by making a mad dash through the midst of their group, but the answer was obviously 'brief and abrupt incident'.

"Interesting," said the leader. "But I think I've got you pegged as the type who likes to bite the hand that disarms you. No, I think we'll mangle you up a bit and then ask again." A hulking brigand reached for Mist, and Rolf realised that everyone was still thinking of him as harmless.

Rolf hand moved instinctively. _If you draw your bow, you've lost,_ the voice in his head reminded him.

_There are worse things to lose,_ he countered to himself, but for all that determination, he still cried out in anguish as his fingers flicked the bowstring. Feathers sprouted from he bandits again and again, the first shot to the head of the brute, then anything devastating that presented itself. It was a storm that came on too fast for most of them to react, and Rolf was a dead shot, a natural, Shinon would have been proud: Shinon, who had told him so many times what it was like to kill, and now he knew. Bodies were falling; one, two, three, four…

* * *

…Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, and a cross-stroke for the ninety-fifth. The chalk snapped as he drew the last line. Rolf looked at the fallen fragment, threw aside the part still in his hand, and fell back to sit on his bed, staring at the wall. It was silent in the barracks; the sun had almost set but the Greil Mercenaries hadn't yet returned from Serenes. Trying to keep his breath regular, he looked over the tallied mass in front of him, like a child's scrawled image of a graveyard.

Mist walked carefully up the corridor, trying not to disturb the quiet. She looked at Boyd, sprawled with forced laziness against the stone beside his brother's door. He returned her glance only briefly, and had the courage to look guilty, though he'd probably never tell Rolf why. Mist let him alone; they had already talked about all there was to say.

A sob broke the silence. She stepped over Boyd's legs and slipped into the room. Rolf didn't notice the cleric until she sat beside him, saying nothing of the tears streaming down his face. The touch of her hand did no good; he was suddenly wracked by deep convulsions and a desperate battle to take in breath.

"I thought – I – I really thought I could – do it," Rolf choked out. "I promised – when we were in that first battle – only a hundred…" She had to wait for him to wrest control back again. "…I couldn't imagine that there were even that many people who would try to hurt… and I wouldn't have to be the one to do it every time… but there's no chance of that now. We're nowhere near done, are we?"

"You don't have to fight any more," Mist assured him. "Just forget about it. Stay here in the city; everyone will understand. Everyone will be _happy_ that you're well out of it."

"_No_," he said, determination overrunning pain. "No, because if I'm not there and Oscar or Boyd or anyone at all gets hurt, gets killed by someone I could have stopped… that's worse. I don't want to fight, but I'll do it because what happens if I don't is worse." He fell silent again, staring at the floor.

Mist brushed a tear off his face with her fingertip, then reached out and ran it down the first chalk line. The liquid blurred it, washed it into an indistinct smear. Not gone, but reduced. Rolf noticed and tried hard for even a weak smile. "You do know it doesn't work that way," he said.

"It should. You're going to be all right, Rolf," she told him, putting her arms around the shaking boy. "It's all going to be okay."

"Mist, I l–"

"It's going to be okay."


End file.
